


Accidental

by Fluffyllama (Llama)



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Adultery, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-19
Updated: 2011-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-27 12:59:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/296119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama/pseuds/Fluffyllama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty years on and the hellmouth’s still haunting them; no one else quite understands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Accidental

**Author's Note:**

> Requested by glossing for Slashfest.

The first time they meet in years, and it’s completely accidental.

“Oz?”

The man takes a moment to respond, and Xander’s almost convinced it’s a case of mistaken identity – it’s been more than two decades since they spent any real time together, and more than five years since they last met, after all. But then there’s that sideways glance and a hand on his arm.

“Hey man, what… _Xander_?”

It’s so good that Xander can’t believe it when he realises they’re stood there clasping each other’s hands in the middle of the street, grinning like a matched pair of fools. The crowd around Oz has dispersed, only one or two glancing curiously their way.

“Wanna grab a bite?” Oz pulls him into the group with ease, and it seems he doesn’t notice that Xander is hardly dressed to blend in, a dull, sober-suited figure among the chattering, bright young things. But then, he never did notice things like that.

They eat in some gallery café with a lively buzz of conversation, uncomfortable seats, and fourteen varieties of vegetarian quiche on the menu. Most of them involve spinach. They talk around the past without using the ‘V’ word or the ‘W’ word or even the ‘S’ word, but they both know what they mean. He hopes nobody else does, because this is a quiet town and he likes it that way.

They swap news updates, but Willow’s been as efficient with the bulletins as ever, and they haven’t much to tell about the others that they don’t both already know. Xander nods all the same, and takes the time to notice the changes; the lines at the corners of his eyes, the broader chest underneath the same loose t-shirt; and wonder how _he_ looks from the outside now. He tells Oz about the lucky break he had running into his former boss from Sunnydale at an interview one day, and how he worked his way up in the firm, and Oz picks at his (vegetarian cheese and olive) omelette as he talks about following this artist down here that he met at a festival in Europe.

“It’s been kinda fun,” he says. “Like being on tour, you know? I just have to publicise the show.” His eyes wander to the door, lips creased in a slight smile. “Plus keep the artist happy, of course.”

Xander’s aware of footsteps behind him, light and soft, and is ready for one of the exotic creatures that inhabit these places to swoop down and steal Oz’s attention. He’s not prepared for a throaty laugh and a firm hand on his shoulder, or the well-preserved older woman who slips into the seat next to Oz. Confident enough to go without make-up, and beautiful enough to get away with it, she’s hip-to-hip with Oz and too close for anyone to mistake her claim on him.

“And believe me, that’s never an easy job.” She smiles, stealing a rolled-up cigarette from the squashy packet in front of Oz. He lights it with a tiny flick of his hand, as if conjuring the lighter from thin air.

“Xander, this is Sylvia.”

“Xander, huh? You’re new.”

The glance she gives him is appraising, but there’s something else too. She’s wary, he realises with more than a little surprise, though what she thinks she has to be afraid of is beyond him. Though maybe it’s just too long since anyone looked him over so frankly. He’s about to make his excuses, but Oz is still smiling at him, even as his fingers stroke across her wrist.

“No, Xander’s one of the old gang.”

She’s interested then; he can feel the change, and the eyes that flick to his are perfectly friendly.

“Oh, another one of your mysterious friends, Daniel.”

Xander raises an eyebrow at that, because if any of the gang have been back it’s news to him.

“Zurich,” says Oz, fingers busy with cigarette papers. He smooths the paper down and looks at Xander as he runs his tongue along the edge to seal it. “Angel.”

“Right,” Xander says. And he thinks he understands.

He leaves them with a promise to get together again before they leave town, and a vague feeling of dissatisfaction. For the first time in months, his steps slow as he passes a bar; one of his old haunts. Music throbs behind the sturdy doors, calling him in.

He thinks of Lauren, expecting him home any time now even if she won’t notice for a few hours that he’s arrived. He thinks of his home; clean, safe, respectable. Suitable for dinner parties for the directors.

He thinks of Oz’s fingers rolling a cigarette, his eyes flicking around the crowded café, and pushes the door open.

* * *

“So, you’re married now?”

The second time they meet, Oz has a patch of blue in his hair – ‘Oh, just some of the girls at the gallery. They like to play’ – and Xander’s on his third drink before he loosens either his tie or his tongue.

“Yeah.” He spins his glass on the table and watches the wet circle widen underneath. “Lauren’s an architect, we met through work. Been married for three years now.”

“Wow.” Oz looks impressed, so he’s probably heard of Xander’s string of disastrous relationships. Willow’s news bulletins are very thorough, Xander knows.

“Sylvia seems nice,” he says, before Oz can ask any more about Lauren. “And you also met through work, that’s–”

“I know what you think.”

Since Xander doesn’t really know what he thinks yet, that seems unlikely, but Oz doesn’t wait for an answer.

“You think I’m a kept man,” Oz says, and smiles in that way he has. Still has, Xander notes.

“No, I just—”

“And you’re right.” Oz’s gaze is level, though his fingers are sliding across his hip, feeling for his pocket and pulling his tobacco pouch out.

“Oh.” Xander’s not sure how to process this, how to reconcile it with the Oz in his head, the eternal free spirit. The notion of ‘kept’ conjures up cages and bolts; all the things Oz usually avoids, surely?

“I’m sorry if she seemed a little odd.” Oz moulds the cigarette carefully, fingers flicking and smoothing. “She’s kinda possessive.”

“And she thought I was, what, going to lead you astray with my wild social life of strip clubs and celebrity parties?”

“Something like that.”

Xander can see him blink away the whole truth as he puts the cigarette to his lips, but he doesn’t push it; god knows he has his own secrets.

“I bet Angel really put the wind up her.”

Oz laughs, but his fingers tremble just for a second, the lighter flame wobbling.

“Well, I had to lie about Angel. Couldn’t really tell her I was helping a vampire to track down some demons using my amazing werewolf powers, could I?”

“Yeah, that one always goes down well.” Xander can still remember their summer trip two years ago. The girl Lauren thought was trying to kiss him, and the last time he needed a stake. “I tried to explain to Lauren once, but she just thought I was talking about a movie.”

Oz just nods, but Xander can feel a little of the weight lift from his shoulders all the same. Someone else who gets it is a rare thing for him these days. Someone not on the other end of a phone, but _really_ there. Here.

It’s not enough to keep him out of the bars once Oz leaves, but at least it takes a few less drinks before he follows someone out of the back door.

* * *

He calls, a couple of times. Oz doesn’t call back, so the greeting from his doorway a couple of weeks later is a surprise.

“Hey.”

Xander’s at his desk, and the soft, familiar voice is so out of place among the wood and chrome that it takes him longer than it should to register who it belongs to.

“Hey.” He should be able to say more than that, but this unexpected meeting of separate parts of his life throws him more than it should.

Oz, on the other hand, seems perfectly at ease in Xander’s other life; he can even touch it, picking up photographs and slumping comfortably into a chair. There’s still blue in his hair, though it’s a little faded now.

“I thought I’d see if you were free for dinner.”

Xander wants to say no; that he has plans, or an important meeting. But why — because Oz didn’t call him back? What does he think this is, a date?

“Sure.”

Over nachos and distinctly non-vegetarian chilli, Oz explains finding his old phone messages, played but carelessly not deleted.

“I figured I owed you an apology, since you must be pretty mad by now,” he says, but Xander shakes his head. It doesn’t matter now, after all. “I’ll leave you my cell phone number this time. That way…”

That way Sylvia can’t keep his messages from him, Xander supposes.

“That’s…” Xander likes to think he wouldn’t put up with that from a woman, but maybe if he was in Oz’s position he’d understand. “What did you do to make her so paranoid?”

Oz eats three more forkfuls of chilli before he answers, and when he speaks it’s not what Xander expects.

“Zurich.”

“This is to do with Angel? What, you got into trouble helping him?”

Oz lays the fork down carefully before meeting Xander’s eye.

“No, I got into trouble when my boyfriend was murdered.” He says it in such a matter-of-fact voice that it takes a moment for it to sink in, even though Oz keeps talking.

Oz had a boyfriend. Oz’s boyfriend was murdered. Oz’s _boy_ friend —

“The demons I mentioned… well, Angel helped me with them. It was too late for Christophe, though, and the police were involved. Sylvia helped me get through the interviews, translating, sorting out the paperwork.” He shrugs, suddenly looking small in the booth seat he’s sprawled across. “She offered me a job, and it turned into this. It’s been good, but now I’m not so messed up…”

It’s the most Xander has ever heard Oz say at once, which is enough to make him think it through before he answers.

“She thinks you might be looking to move on.”

“Yeah.”

Xander knows he’s nodding too much, but he needs to clear his head before he speaks.

“So.” It’s an awkward start, he knows, but any social graces he’s learnt in the past few years seem to have deserted him now that he needs them. “How long, you know…”

“Have I known?” Oz looks like he’s calculating, but in the end he shrugs. “A long time. Maybe always. How long with Christophe? Not long enough.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Xander want to go home and tell Lauren how much he loves her.

But later, when he’s leaning against a wall behind another bar with an anonymous mouth around his cock, it’s blue-streaked hair he pictures under his fingers.

* * *

Soon Xander realises they have a routine.

Or rather, Oz has a regular Wednesday dinner date with Xander, and Xander has a new routine. Even though Oz has changed a little over the last decade or two, Xander’s pretty sure the word routine can’t be applied to anything he does.

This time, he’s fiddling with a leaflet when Xander slips into the booth.

“New York next week,” he says, as if that explains everything. “I’ve been looking forward to that one.” His fingers are fidgeting though, nervous against the sharp, glossy edges.

It seems he expects Xander to say something more than a simple “Cool” to that, the way that level gaze is fixed on him, but Xander is too busy thinking about the routine that isn’t; the interlude that is a way of getting an evening a week off for Oz, until he moves on to the next town.

Because Xander’s always the one left behind, isn’t he? He orders a double straightaway this time instead of waiting until Oz leaves, and doesn’t think about why. Two gulps and he lowers the glass to see Oz still looking.

“Never saw you as a drinker,” is all Oz says, and Xander isn’t sure why he wants to take offence at it. He orders another instead, daring Oz to disapprove, but Oz is silent now.

“I cheat on my wife,” Xander says after his third double in ten minutes. “I cheat on Lauren.”

“Xander…”

But Oz’s voice is soft, and Xander can ignore that, even though it might be something he wants to hear.

“Not all the time,” he says, and now he’s speaking to himself, because he’d never tell anyone any of this. “Just… sometimes life seems too normal now. It’s unreal, the normality. I can go years and never notice it, then something comes up…”

A letter from Willow, a bouncy phone call from Dawn, or a more sedate one from Buffy even. A movie with a vampire, all dripping fangs and designer crypt, or even a dog howling from the park along the block.

Or a visitor from the past with hair still holding a faint trace of blue, and an understanding smile.

“…and somehow,” he gestures helplessly with his hands, “it all starts again.”

“I know, Xander.”

Oh, he knows, does he? That’s all very well. But it doesn’t matter that Oz knows, because he’ll be gone in a few days. The thought is liberating, though there is a corner of Xander that wonders if it’s the Scotch talking.

“And I go to a bar, and pick someone up,” Xander continues, with his eyes fixed on the glass in his hand. “For sex.”

“Yeah, I think I got that part.”

Oz seems uncomfortable now, and hey, Xander can chalk that up as a success if he needs to start keeping score. This isn’t about scores, though.

“I pick up men in bars. I have sex with them. And then I go home to my wife.”

And there it is. Not so much cards on the table as an announcement, or maybe even an invitation. One with scuffed corners fluffing up, and sticky fingerprints all over it, but yeah, they both know what it is. It lies there, looking, Xander has to admit, pretty shabby next to the glossy ticket to New York.

“I think you should go home now, Xander,” Oz says, and for once, Xander does.

* * *

Xander takes a different route for lunch for a while, just to be sure, but there’s no sign of Oz at his office or their restaurant when Wednesday comes around. On Thursday, he passes by the gallery again.

The posters are new, something about African traditional art, another for a stern-faced man who sculpts horses as far as Xander can make out. It may as well be a different building, even the sparse group of arty types hanging around look less intimidating than they did last time.

On an impulse, he braves the café, and spends far too long contemplating the menu while he wonders how many of the chairs in there Oz has sat on. How many of the ashtrays he used, which quiche he tried. Did he even eat quiche?

“Anything without spinach,” he tells the anorexic girl behind the counter, and can’t help smiling at her confusion.

“Good choice.” There’s a soft voice by his elbow, but it can’t be who he thinks it is because Oz is in New York.

But it is. And Xander can be sure now of at least one chair Oz has sat on, and that he does, in fact, eat quiche if there’s no spinach in it.

“Why didn’t you go?” he asks over coffee, but Oz just smiles and shrugs, the way he does.

“I’m not ready to…” Xander starts, and he isn’t sure exactly what he’s not ready to do, but he isn’t.

“I know.” Oz is still smiling, still unconcerned. “But I thought I’d stick around for now and see what happens. If that’s okay with you?”

And the touch of Oz’s hand on his arm when he leaves may be completely accidental.

But then again, maybe it’s not.


End file.
